My body votes for none of the above.
Just sitting upright is a full-body event as if I’m hauling myself through wet cement. Even my eyelids feel heavy.
Knox shifts, eyes flickering open, bloodshot and dazed, landing on me like I might vanish if he moves his gaze away too fast. Poor guy looks like he lost days of sleep, rumpled and concerned yet beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache.
“Hey,” he says, all gravel-wrapped.
“Hi.” I pat my hair down as if he’s never seen me with bed-hair.
A light knock breaks our quiet haze, and neither of us looks away as the nurse slips in.
“Good morning.” Her tone sounds practiced, cheerfully lilted. She scans the monitor, then checks her tablet. “How are we feeling?”
“Like I got run over by a giant heart monitor,” I croak.
“Well, you did pass out, even during that tilt test. Your body’s still playing catch-up.” She checks my blood pressure, adjusts the IV, then scribbles something on her tablet. “You’re doing great. The cardiologist will be in soon to go over your treatment plan.”
She walks out, her white shoes vanishing down the hallway before quiet falls back into place.
Knox is now fully awake, sipping bottled water, probably watching me so intensely in case I pass out again, just for funsies. He rises and pads over, eyes never leaving mine.
“We said no real life,” I say through a sigh. “And here I am, folding you into the realest part of mine.”
“Baby. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.” He leans in to brush a strand of hair off my forehead before pressing a kiss just above it, way too gentle for how messy I feel inside. “How are you feeling?”
I barely get a breath in before the door swings open again, and this time, it’s the cardiologist. She wheels her stool closer, the squeak of the casters loud in the silent room.
Glancing up from her tablet, she offers me a quick smile. “Good morning, Cami. Did you get any rest?”
I nod though my body is basically holding up a giant “NO” sign.
She scrolls through her tablet. “As we discussed yesterday, POTS isn’t life-threatening, but it can be disruptive. You’ll receive a referral for follow-up with a specialist in New York. Someone will call you to schedule your appointment.” Shesmiles again, warm and empathetic. “In the meantime, while you’re here in Crystal Cove, you can begin the first line of treatment, which includes a few lifestyle changes.”
I nod again, pretending to follow along as she rattles off words like hydration, beta blockers, and electrolytes. I catch the important parts:
No hot showers.
No caffeine.
No alcohol.
No strenuous exercise.
Cool. Let me just erase my entire personality.
Handing me a pamphlet about POTS, she calls salty snacks a life hack when really, it’s treason against my digestive aesthetic.
I nod again, staring at what the pamphlet tells me is my new normal, still stuck on the phraseno strenuous exercise.
Shifting in bed, the paper rustles beneath me, IV tugging at my arm. I swallow hard, my cheeks flaming their betrayal. “I’m not trying to turn this into a Grey’s Anatomy episode…but is sex considered ‘strenuous exercise’?”
Knox chokes on his water.
The cardiologist, bless her, doesn’t even flinch.
“I recommend holding off a day or two while your vitals stabilize,” she replies, her tone professionally unfazed. “But once you’re upright and symptom-free, sex isn’t prohibited. Just…pace yourself.”
Pace myself.
